No Longer the Clown novel · Chapter 8 of 16

Chapter 8: The Stall

"Then who held her hand through chemo in 2023?"

"Nobody," Ren said. "Not him."

"Maybe she got the name wrong."

"She spelled it right. She got the hospital right. She got the department right." He put the phone away. "She just picked a man who couldn't answer."

I held the coffee in both hands.

"I could post that," I said. "Right now."

"You could."

"And everyone would say I'm the crazy ex attacking a cancer survivor again."

He didn't argue.

"One dead doctor is a typo to people who love her," I said. "I need her to be wrong in a way nobody can fix."

"Then you'll need time," Ren said. "And money. How are you on money?"

"Zero dollars in a house fund. One suspended job. A couch with a hostile cat."

"So, great."

"Thriving."

He looked at my knife roll.

"You know what I'd pay for your osmanthus cake?"

"Four fifty. It's on the menu."

"I'd pay twelve," he said. "And I'm cheap."

My coworker's cousin sold honey at the Ballard Sunday Market.

His neighbor's stall had been empty since August.

By Friday I had rented six hours a week in a commissary kitchen in Georgetown.

By Saturday night I had twelve trays of osmanthus cake, eight of green tea shortbread, and a hundred egg tarts.

Ren showed up at five in the morning on Sunday with a folding table in the back of his car.

"You didn't have to do this."

"I have Sundays off."

"You have one Sunday off a month. You told me."

"Well." He unfolded the table legs. "It's this one."

The market opened at ten.

By ten fifteen, a woman had stopped in front of my table and taken a picture of my face.

"You're the girl from the restaurant," she said.

"I'm the girl with the egg tarts."

"You screamed at a cancer patient."

"I asked for my bracelet back."

She sniffed and walked on.

Two teenagers filmed me from the coffee cart.

A man walked past twice, reading my sign out loud in a sing-song voice.

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